The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  The amber figure hissed like a snake. The rotten flesh began to fall from his bones. Demetros’s eyes opened wide in shock before his body fell to the floor in pieces.

  “N-no!” His rotten jaw fell from his skull, leaving his last gurgling words unfinished. He left only a pile of putrid orange gristle on the stones. The Chonoroq howled in triumph. Shivering, Kestel barely heard them.

  Leaning over Arbalis, Kestel held the veteran’s callused hand. Arbalis looked up at Kestel and smiled, tears streaking the grime and blood on his bronzed face. The old man raised a dirty finger and touched Kestel’s cheek, trying to mouth words, but Kestel shook his head and put his hands on his Commander’s chest.

  “Arbalis,” he said. “You will not—”

  Struck in the back of his head, Kestel’s vision flashed with white pain before everything went black.

  33

  With the Prioress recovering, Maal’s assassin will be made to pay for this crime. This does not negate the fact that we failed. My first act as Spymaster will be to launch a full investigation into the security breach that let the killer Gyges through our defenses. You will present yourself for inquiry at once.

  ~memorandum from Spymaster Harpalus to all agents,

  dated 90th year of the Exile~

  Shoved against the wall, Harpalus grunted at the lighting jolt of pain shooting up his bandaged arm.

  “Arsehole.” He ducked a ferocious blow before leaping forward and bearing the man down. With a wild expression, the guard tried to bring his sword up, but Harpalus thrust his knife deep into the man’s side. The guardsman screamed and thrashed, pulling Harpalus down the stairs until they fell onto another armored figure already battling more of the red-clad guards.

  “Get to your feet!” someone said, though the Spymaster couldn’t place where the voice came from. He tried to disentangle himself from his bleeding opponent, but two more men fell on top of him. A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up. Harpalus whipped his dagger at this new attacker.

  “Easy,” said Marcus.

  The voice brought control back into Harpalus’s eyes. He wiped his face clean, surveying the red-clad bodies lining the stairs. “Are there any more of the Prelate’s guards left?”

  “Yes, but they won’t face us here,” said the dark figure. “They know we’re more than a match for them in close quarters.”

  Harpalus nodded. “They’ll be drawing back and waiting with bows beyond the top of the stairs.”

  “The good news is, they only had two archers,” said Marcus, brandishing a bloodstained bow. “And we already slew one.”

  Harpalus looked to the cluster of knights crouching by the top of the stairs, picturing what he would do in such a situation. “Whatever’s left of the Prelate’s guards will be waiting at the next set of stairs beyond this door. And the last archer will be above them, waiting to pick us off.”

  “So, what do we do? Someone is going to have to get to the upper level before the archer stuffs us full of feathers.”

  Harpalus looked down the stairs and into the night. The darkness had long passed its nadir, the shadows already beginning to lighten. Soon, this island is going to erupt. He thought about the different groups waiting throughout the city for the coming battle. We’ve run out of time.

  “Cut a path for me through the Prelate’s guards,” he said. “Use the bow to keep the archer off me. I’ll take care of the rest. Gyges! With me!”

  Marcus nodded and knocked an arrow into the short bow, nodding for his men to ready themselves. Gyges lumbered to his side. Harpalus closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, waiting for the signal to move and trying to ignore the pain niggling at his concentration.

  “Go!” yelled Marcus.

  The Spymaster readied his dagger, carried forward in a crush of silver knights. The group burst through the doorway, giving Harpalus just enough time to register a small knot of red-clad guardsmen as something buzzed past his ear.

  Gyges moved in front, bearing down on the men like a siege engine. The Spymaster crouched low behind the giant and wriggled through the struggling bodies, wincing at each thump of an arrow that hit woodwork next to his face. At the top of the stairs, Harpalus had a second to register a face and blurred red shape before once again wrestling with a desperate opponent. He stabbed again and again until the bowman went limp beneath him.

  “The archer’s gone!” Harpalus held his bandaged arm and looked over the stairway.

  General Dio and his knights had torn through the remainder of the Prelate’s guards like a silver hammer, scattering the guardsmen in all directions before rushing up the stairs. Harpalus crouched beside the door at the top of the stairway and waited for Marcus to line up next to him.

  “Stay out!” yelled a deep voice from beyond the door. “Don’t you understand? It’s for your own good.”

  “I never thought it would come to this,” said the tall, dark figure, waiting for his remaining knights to take up position. He shook his head. “Taking arms against my superior officer.”

  “You learn to live with it,” said Harpalus, under his breath. He turned to Gyges and raised his voice. “Gyges! Get the door!”

  He ran up the stairs, forcing the armored soldiers around the hulking figure to scramble out of the way. Harpalus’s lunge against the door caused the heavy oak to groan and fall inward, the ancient hinges giving way.

  Harpalus held his dagger ready and crowded into the room after Marcus, turning his head toward the corners of the small space before examining the group of figures before him.

  Dressed in traditional back robes overlaid with a steel breastplate, the Prelate stood with his back to the stone wall, holding his sword ready. Beside the Prelate stood a trio of red-clad Exsilium guards, looking at the group of knights before them with fear and resignation.

  “Prelate Darius,” said Harpalus, his tone infused with anger. “I believe you owe us an explanation.”

  Julia and her agents crept through the basements beneath the tower, sending Tomlin ahead to check each room before moving the main group forward. Above them, screams and clashes of battle filtered down. Julia frowned.

  “What do you think is happening?” whispered a young agent.

  “I don’t know,” Julia lied. “Perhaps Rowan has turned on Darius?”

  Somehow, Pye breached the gate. Her body trembled with rage, but a tiny part of her couldn’t help but be impressed.

  “The reason for the fighting doesn’t matter,” she said to the agents. “We can use this to our advantage. Move quietly and we may be able to get to Darius while his guards are engaged.”

  This must be what it’s like for him, Julia realized. Facing a battle where she had no information, no maps or agents within the enemy ranks brought a small thrill. To focus on the goal and cut your way through by any means necessary.

  Tomlin’s weathered face peeked around the door to the next room, the old man holding his bow at the ready. “All clear,” he whispered, “but we’re right beneath the fighting.”

  Julia nodded and motioned for the small group to move into the next room. Another storage basement, larger than the others, it had a steep set of stairs leading to a trapdoor which Julia assumed would connect to the kitchens. However, heavy thumping and groans beyond the trapdoor made it clear that men were fighting in the room above.

  “There’s no way around it,” said Tomlin. “We’re going to have to fight from here.”

  Julia looked at the slits of light pouring through the gaps in the floorboards and considered her options.

  “Get ready,” she said, her tone rising to one of command. “Marten, when I give the order, open the door and get back. We’ll draw the fight down here, where we can attack them while they are coming down the stairs, and Tomlin can pick them off. As for the rest of you, if the soldiers push us back, retreat toward the tunnels. We will at least know the layout of the area.”

  The men and women nodded and unsheathed their weapons. Marten climbed up the
steep staircase and braced against the wooden trapdoor with his muscular arms, pushing them open with a single heave. Three struggling figures fell down the stairs, dragging Marten with them. They collapsed in a heap in front of Julia.

  “What’s going on?” yelled one of the men, dressed in the red livery of Darius’s guard. He was stabbed through the side by another figure, dressed in the simple chainmail and boiled leathers of an Exsilium soldier.

  “He’s one of ours!” Marten tried to kick himself out of the scrum.

  Before anyone could separate them, the remaining red-clad guard drove his sword into the Exsilium soldier’s neck, showering all present with blood. The other agents leaped forward and stabbed the guardsman in a half a dozen places at once, leaving a bloody pile of corpses on the floor.

  “It looks like General Dio has found out about the Prelate’s defection.” Tomlin wiped the blood from his eyes and helped Marten to his feet. “Should we leave them at it and retreat?”

  Julia shook her head. “No. We cannot go back empty handed. We will press on, and if necessary, we will ask the General’s soldiers to stand down. This is still an internal Citadel matter, and I would prefer not to have the military involved.” Or have Pye steal this from me, too.

  The assembled agents shot each other worried glances, but before anyone could reply, a silver-haired woman descended the stairs. Julia looked at the graceful figure, how nimbly she moved, and drew the dagger from her sleeve. “It’s Maal’s agent! Get back!”

  The newcomer produced a leather thong and tied her hair back with a single, deft movement, fixing everyone present with a stunning smile. “Do we have more visitors?” Her gaze fell on Julia and the beautiful face melted into one of pure rage. “You!”

  “Kill her!” Julia stepped back and watched agents pounce on the woman from all sides.

  “This rebellion has to happen,” said Prelate Darius. “There’s more at stake here than any one person, even the Prioress. You couldn’t understand what’s happened to me.”

  Oh, how I wish that were true. “You tried to double-cross Rowan and the League of Nobles, but instead you’ve been fooled,” said Harpalus. “Look at yourself. You’ve set Exsilium on Exsilium, as the Caelbor march to battle. Is this how the Prelate should be acting? Sitting in silence while the Citadel cries out for aid?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Drop the knife, Darius. Or better yet, turn it on Rowan. The Silver Prioress may yet be merciful.”

  “This isn’t about Rowan,” screamed the Prelate, pointing his shaking sword toward Harpalus. “It never was. Only I can deliver us from Maal.”

  Marcus’s soldiers fanned out. Harpalus raised a warning finger. Still holding the Prelate’s gaze, his mind skimmed through the unanswered questions. “We know about the Bloodwyne. We know that Maal gave it to Rowan to help control the League of Nobles, in exchange for some sort of non-aggression treaty on the mainland.”

  The Prelate remained silent, his eyes darting around the room at the soldiers blocking off any possibility of escape.

  “My guess is, the old fool was arrogant enough to believe he could defeat Maal without the Citadel’s help,” said Harpalus. “He was probably planning to double-cross her from the start.”

  “Rowan’s plans were irrelevant.” Darius shook, his eyes wild. “They always were. He had Maal’s servant in his hands, and yet he had no idea how much value she was. But I did. It was I who wrested Maal’s secrets from her very lips.”

  “What kind of secrets?” Marcus’s voice sounded troubled at the Prelate’s words.

  “Secrets that can undo Maal’s power,” said Darius.

  “And for this you risked the entire Citadel?” Marcus’s tone changed to one of shock.

  “The Shrine exists!” said Darius. “My servants confirmed it months ago.”

  “And what about my servants?” The unsettled debt rose through the pains and worries of Harpalus’s mind. “One of my agents found out what you were planning, and you killed her for it. A cleric named Amelia, in case you didn’t know. Even if nothing else happens here tonight, you’ll pay for her death.”

  “Amelia? She would have ruined everything,” said the Prelate trembling. “She had to die. She couldn’t know what I was planning—what I am becoming.”

  Harpalus and Marcus exchanged a worried look, and even Gyges had the presence of mind to back toward the door.

  “Prelate, did you try the Bloodwyne?” said Harpalus. “You know the risks.”

  “The Prioress said Bloodwyne is a poison, but she’s just too weak. I can control the power. I will defeat Maal, not some frightened, old cripple.” A pale amber hue crept across the man’s irises, the veins in his olive face and hands turning orange.

  “Possession and use of Bloodwyne is punishable by death.” Marcus raised the bow toward the black-robed figure. “Surrender and accept the punishment for your treachery.”

  “You cannot stop me, General.” Darius began to sparkle and flicker, but unlike the calm silver glow of the Aeris, tongues of golden flames caressed the man’s skin.

  “Surrender,” said the charcoal-colored figure again.

  “Shut up and get back,” yelled Harpalus. “He’s no longer—”

  Golden flames erupted from the Prelates palms, cutting off the Spymaster’s warning. Flames fanned out across the room, heading toward Marcus. The General let an arrow fly. It whistled past Harpalus’s shoulder as he dropped to the floor, but the heat incinerated the missile. The steel tip ended up buried in the wall beside the incandescent figure.

  Laughing, Darius sent flames dancing around the room. The air in Harpalus’s lungs burned. He crawled toward the door.

  “This is only the beginning!” The Prelate forced the firestorm down onto the fallen General.

  The dark figure gasped and tried to roll away. Two of his men yelled and jumped in front of the flames, their screams drowning out Darius’s laughter.

  “Fall back!” Marcus gasped, crawling toward the door. Harpalus and Gyges were ahead of him, pulling themselves out into the narrow balcony and crumpling onto the cold stones. A burst of flame licked the door frame before Marcus pulled himself out as well.

  “We need to send for help.” The General coughed, clawing off plates of red-hot armor. “We can’t defeat him alone.”

  Harpalus opened his mouth to respond but a low, mournful horn echoed through the empty watchtower. Within seconds, the call was answered by a multitude of others in the distance.

  “Caelbor deep horns,” said Harpalus. “It’s Rowan. The attack has started.”

  Marcus pulled another of his injured knights out of the blazing room. “We can’t—”

  “We have no more time.” Harpalus rose to his feet, struggling to stand steady. “This ends now.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “End this.”

  Harpalus closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, pushing away the throbbing pain trying to distract him. He flipped the dagger over in his hand and brought his weight onto the balls of his feet. “This island is mine,” he whispered and spun into the doorway.

  Inside the room, Darius stood bathed in flames directing golden fire toward helpless knights crouched against the wall. The roof of the small room was already burning, and the stones beneath the laughing figure glowed red-hot.

  The Spymaster and the Prelate stood eye-to-eye for the space of a single heartbeat, then Harpalus unwound his arm like a slingshot. Darius sent golden flames arcing toward the door. Harpalus fell sideways. Time seemed to slow as the worn dagger sliced through the flames. The fire burned the handle away, but, carried forward on anger and betrayal, the glowing red steel buried itself in Darius’s amber eye.

  The flames evaporated, and the Prelate raised a shaking hand to the sizzling blade. “But—”

  The black-robed figure collapsed onto the floor, leaving Harpalus panting against a smoldering door frame.

  “Well done,” said Marcus, staggering back into the
room. He checked the nearest burned knight. “The Angel must be smiling on you this day.”

  “We still have Rowan’s forces to deal with.” Harpalus leaned on Gyges, staggering toward the stairs.

  “What will we do with Darius?” Marcus peered into the smoking room.

  The Spymaster stopped for a moment to consider the situation, the clockwork of his mind reluctant to spin into action. “It would be a blow to the Citadel to have Darius’s betrayal made public knowledge. Take the body with you to the Citadel. We’ll store it there and announce that he died in a fire caused by the fighting. Can you do that for me?”

  “I will.” Marcus nodded. “But I’m curious about this Shrine that Darius mentioned. Does it contain some secret power?”

  “I think a lot has been revealed tonight that would be better kept secret,” said Harpalus. “Wouldn’t you agree, General?”

  The armored figure blanched but gave a stiff bow. “Yes, I think that would be best. We will work on a report to the Prioress once the rebellion has been dealt with. What will you do?”

  Harpalus shrugged. “I need to go through this mess and destroy any evidence of his treachery. You go and see to the battle—I’ll rejoin you soon.”

  The General motioned to his knights, and the armored men filed out of the room, bearing the blackened body of Prelate Darius on their shoulders. Harpalus’s final glance at the Prelate’s ruined face made him shiver. Though weary, he walked back into the smoking room and set to work.

  The platinum-haired woman spun on her heel and lunged at the nearest of Julia’s agents, punching hard into the luckless man’s midsection. He doubled over in pain. She snatched the sword from his scabbard. The beautiful figure brought the sword around, skewering her next opponent in a single smooth movement.

  “I’ll kill you!” She wrenched the sword out of the agent’s belly and launched herself at Julia.

  “Get back!” Marten, the stonemason, pushed Julia out of the way and brought his heavy mallet to bear. The clumsy weapon was no match for the woman’s nimble moves. He groaned and dropped to the ground, clutching at the gash in his neck.